But, dear Lucy, have you any spite in you? Are you capable of malice deadly malice? If you are, sit down and wish the person you hate to be in love with a man (I must, it seems, speak out) whom she thinks, and every-body knows, to be su-perior to herself, in every quality, in every endow — ment, both of mind and fortune; and be doubtful (far, far worse is doubtful than sure!) among some faint glimmerings of hope, whether his affections are engaged; and if they are not, whether he can re-turn Ah, Lucy! you know what I mean Don’t let me speak out.

But one word more Don’t you think the doc-tor’s compliment at the beginning of this letter, a little particular?” Delight of E VERY-ONE who is so happy as to know you.” Charming words! But are they or are they not, officiously inserted? Am I the delight of Sir Charles Grandison’s heart? Does he not know me? Weak, silly, vain, humble, low, yet proud Harriet Byron! Begone, paper mean confession of my conjecturing folly Ah, Lucy, I tore the paper half through, as you’ll see, in anger at myself; but I will stitch it to the doc-tor’s letter, to be taken off by you, and to be seen by nobody else.

VOLUME III.

Letter I.

Miss Harriet Byron to Miss Lucy Selby.

Saturday, March 18. Self, my dear Lucy, is a very wicked thing; a sanctifier, if one would give way to its partialities, of actions, which, in others, we should have no doubt to condemn. Delicacy, too, is often a misleader; an idol, at whose shrine we sometimes offer up our sincerity; but, in that case, it should be called indelicnci/.

Nothing, surely, can be delicate, that is not true, or that gives birth to equivocation: yet how was I pleased with Lord and Lady L. and Miss Grandison, for endeavouring to pass me off to good Dr. Bartlett in the light I had no title to appear in! As if my mind, in a certain point, remained to be known; and would so remain, till the gentleman had discovered his.